


Double-Edged

by wvwv



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers (Locked Tomb Trilogy), The People's Tomb Fic Jam: Scream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26773477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wvwv/pseuds/wvwv
Summary: Ianthe hears the Saint of Duty attacking Harrow in her room, and goes to investigate.
Relationships: Harrowhark Nonagesimus & Ianthe Tridentarius
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	Double-Edged

**Author's Note:**

> Ianthe POV of chapter 24 of Harrow the Ninth. All dialogue (a whopping two lines) comes from ch 24.

A great _bang_ resounded from somewhere in the Mithraeum. Ianthe jerked upright in her room. Another _bang_ followed, slightly more muffled. Then silence.

Ianthe remained frozen and hyper-alert for a few more heartbeats, then forced herself to relax, flushing the adrenaline from her system. No announcement came over the comm warning of invading Heralds, so she figured there was no impending doom. Perhaps the esteemed Saint of Joy was throwing a fit, or something. Far be it for Ianthe to question or intrude upon the mysterious workings of her venerated elders.

She shifted her grip on her rapier. She was working—uselessly and unproductively, but working all the same—on finding some trick to getting her right arm to work properly. She had hoped that practicing alone and away from Augustine’s criticism would help her to focus enough to brute force her way into functioning as a real Lyctor. Instead, she filled in her own derisive commentary in his place, and her right arm was as slow and unresponsive as ever. Owing to her regenerative abilities, she was physically as alert as she started, but her patience was deteriorating. The pungent smell of rotting, semi-preserved apple cores—her other failing project—was not helping her mood. Her teeth ripped into her lower lip until she tasted blood; the pain flared sharply and then vanished as her lip healed itself. What was the point of all this power if she couldn’t bend it to her will?

A voice cried out, high and thin and frantic, from the same direction as the earlier banging. Ianthe raised her eyebrows, intrigued. Although… she thought she recognized the particular pitch of that voice. With another round of muffled thumping—footsteps?—Ianthe realised what must be happening. The Saint of Duty had gone after Harrow again. It was late; he must’ve targeted her in her room, found a way to break through her wards. Ianthe stared at her wall in the direction of Harrow’s room. Well, actually, she stared at the picture of Valancy Trinit, naked and fondling a rapier, that hung in the direction of Harrow’s room.

Ianthe figured one of the other Lyctors or the Prince Undying himself would come to her aid. Ianthe had only intervened once, and the sight of Harrow tumbling down the hall wrapped in Ianthe’s gargantuan ball of fat still brought a smile to her face, and a scowl to Harrow’s.

She turned back to her sword, but she barely saw it. Her ears, against her will, were straining for another scream, or more crashes, or for Mercymorn shrieking at the Saint of Duty for attacking a toddler. Nothing. She wondered if he’d actually succeeded this time. Ianthe sighed. Her curiosity was going to be the death of her one of these days. Perhaps if she got it out of her system, she’d be able to make some progress on this damn training.

It was silent again by the time Ianthe got to Harrow’s bedroom. It looked like a bomb had gone off in her room; her door was just barely clinging to its frame, and residue of Harrow’s regenerating ash was scattered around the threshold, crumbling and inert.

Ianthe tiptoed inside like she was breaking in. She had been in Harrow’s room many times previous, but usually her entrance was accompanied with the now-familiar tingling of Harrow’s bone dust on her clothes as she was permitted through Harrow’s wards. Stepping across the threshold with no reaction from her wards felt like more of an intrusion than the busted door. Harrow’s wards, of course, were nullified and strewn across the floor, mixed among the no-longer-regenerating ash. The rest of Harrow’s room featured more destruction; shattered, brittle bones and still-fresh wine splashes of blood decorated the floor. Gideon the First was nowhere to be found.

“Harrow?”

Ianthe saw her then, cowering on the floor against the wall just outside of her bathroom, naked and slick with water, soap, and blood. The nakedness was a surprise. She must’ve been taking one of her atrocious, tepid little bird baths when the Saint of Duty broke in. Her hair hung in damp black tendrils and stuck to the blanched skin over her collapsed cheekbone. Blood dripped over her lips and gushed blackly from a gaping vertical slash in her gut. Harrow’s self-inflicted obstruction of her own power meant that she wouldn’t heal until she concentrated to fuse her injuries shut manually, and she didn’t look like she was in any state to concentrate on anything. A full Lyctor would be healed or nearly healed, by this point. A normal human would be dead or just about. Harrow was still conscious, but in the dim, confused way of something in terrible pain.

Her body shivered and her breath wheezed, but she slowly turned her broken face to focus on Ianthe. And her eyes were—horrifying, mesmerising. She looked at Ianthe like she wanted to see her. She looked like she wanted to see nothing more. Her irises and pupils were indistinguishable at this distance, combined into twin black voids. They were entirely Harrow, a marker of her weakness and her strength both, and they were locked onto Ianthe’s face.

Even the slight movement of Harrow’s head must’ve been too much for her, irritating some frayed nerve or other, for she released a tiny broken keening noise. She was staring at Ianthe with the frantic, delirious desperation of a wounded animal. 

Ianthe was revolted and fascinated in equal parts at this pathetic display. She found that she couldn’t look away, though she wished she were anywhere else. She wanted, of all things, to reach out to her, but she clamped down on that impulse as soon as she identified it.

Unbidden, the memory of Canaan House, at the end, bloomed in her mind and took root there. Cytherea, using Ianthe’s body as her own personal battery, the feeling of _wrongness_ , of sharp sucking pain, of something being removed from her that shouldn’t be. She didn’t remember what sounds she’d made then, hysterical from pain and panic, though she was sure she’d cried out. Later, when Cytherea had stood above her and severed Ianthe’s arm with a shining white shard of bone, Ianthe had been too weak to scream. She remembered making an undignified, whining keen like what Harrow was making now, a pitiable cry for help. Harrow had been unconscious then, at Canaan House, if Ianthe recalled correctly. Ianthe hadn’t cared either way at the time, but at present she found herself grateful for that, seeing Harrow looking now as she must’ve back then. The only thing worse than failure was failure with an audience.

She looked at Harrow’s naked body, at the soap bubbles streaked across the floor and over Harrow’s feet, and at Harrow’s blackhole eyes. Harrow had precious dignity left to spare; so did Ianthe, if she were being honest. Perhaps Ianthe could spare them both, just this once. She forced herself to release the tension straining at her muscles and let out a breath.

Ianthe said, “Wow! Not how I imagined this happening, at all,” and quickly returned to her bedroom.

She attempted to resume her training, now that her curiosity was satisfied, but she found that she wasn’t able to concentrate enough even to continue her failure from earlier.

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically cheating, because it doesn't actually say that Harrow screamed at all in that chapter. But, it also doesn't say she _doesn't_ scream, so it's good enough for me!


End file.
